Just like New
by WaterGuns.xx
Summary: Adrian is abused. Emotionally, physically and sexually. His father turned his back on him when his mother died and he hasnt been loved since. So when his father decides to pack up and move he meets someone that just might change his world. Slash, Yaoi.


I don't scream anymore and I'm immensely proud of the fact. I stopped on my fifteenth birthday when I realised there was no point in it, no matter how much noise I made no one ever came to save me. I had dreamt about someone saving me so many times before, but I had dismissed those dreams as fantasies long ago.

Screaming only gave him the motivation to make me scream again, it only made it more pleasurable for him, it only made him pound into me harder. All he ever got out of me now was a whimper and even that was a rare occurrence.

I always wondered why you cried when you hurt, it's not like it helps anything and it's not like your tears will take the pain away. It's a natural reaction made out of habit. But why?

I'm not going to act like it doesn't hurt. Because it does. It hurts so fucking much that I wish I would just die. I wish that the next time I black out I don't come to. He uses his fists, his feet, his teeth, his dick. Knives, Golf sticks, glass, whatever he can find. He's resourceful like that.

The first time he hit me I was six.

I'd like to say that he only did this to me because he has a drinking problem or he's on drugs or something like that, but I can't. He's never touched a drink in my lifetime. That I know of anyway.

It's because I look like my mom. My deceased mom. She died on the way to pick me up from school and my dad blames me every day for it. When I was six I didn't understand where my mommy had gone or why my dad was so angry with me. I was just a naive little boy and dad thought I was just there to taunt him, to remind him every time he looked at me of what he'd lost. And the one thing that killed me more than having him hate me is the fact that I don't even remember what she looks like, all I have of her is what I see in the mirror and I can't bear to even glance in one anymore.

I know what I'll find anyway. Black hair that was long overdue for a haircut, green eyes that are covered over by brown contacts my dad won't let me take out except for when he's using me and wants me to look like mom—He said that no one should see my eyes but him, one of his many fucked up obsessive traits. – A body that looked like it did when I was thirteen. Short and pudgy. Covered in scars, burns and bruises that never get left alone long enough to fade completely. Hateful words had been carved into my skin with blades, words that still hurt me every time I read them. I know that I'm fat and ugly, having them is just another constant reminder.

I stood staring down at the scales with joy fluttering in my chest, I almost smiled. 110 lbs. 3 pounds lighter that what I was three weeks ago, but the happiness faded as I remembered that I'm still 110 and I'm still _fat._ I'd _kill_ to lose 15 pounds. 95 sounds like a good number to me.

I let out a soft sigh and let my hands drop to my hips where they tugged at the fat there. It was so disgusting that I wanted to cry. I let go with my right hand and grabbed for the kitchen knife I had placed next to the sink. I wanted this stuff off of me, I just wanted it gone. I let a few tears trickle down my cheeks as I pulled the fat away from my body and let the knife press into it.

_Get it off, get it off, get it off, cut it off._

Blood pooled around the blade and seeped down my hand and stomach. I swallowed a whimper and bit my lip, trying to silence myself. I pressed down harder and the searing pain doubled. I was getting faint, my head was swimming, blood was now pouring down my stomach, legs, hands and pooling at my feet. My breath was coming in huge gulps and my hands were shaking so hard that the blade clattered to the bathroom tiles, soon followed by me as my legs gave way and I fell to my knees.

My hands reached for a towel and when I grasped one I pressed it to my stomach, staining the white red.

_So much blood, so much blood, so much blood._

The faint sound of a door slamming made its way to my ears and I knew even through the haze that my dad was home.

I became frantic as I used the last of my strength trying to find stuff to patch myself up, half of our stuff was still in boxes and I let one's contents spill out onto the floor. I would clean it up later, finding what I needed I opened a bottle and soaked a cotton ball in antiseptic, trying to clean the wound but failing because of the blood. I ended up just wrapping an entire roll of gauze around my midriff.

When I had finished I let myself collapse onto the side of the tub and taking huge breaths, trying to clear my head. My dad would be up soon, looking for me, and if he saw this mess he would _not _be happy.

I let two minutes pass before I pushed myself up and walked out of the bathroom and into the hallway, my legs shaking for the first couple of steps. I closed the door tightly behind me. I didn't worry too much about the mess because my dad had his personal ensuite. Thank god. I made my way down the stairs with a sense of dread that enters my every time I have to see my father, butterflies—the bad kind—pooling in my stomach. A stomach that was radiating pain throughout my entire body. What the fuck is my problem? I can't just _cut_ it off. What a fucking _stupid _idea.

**Review. Please? ^_^**


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